Ch06: Registration

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I clip-clopped my way back to peg number 94, not wanting to look at anyone or anything.

I had to get out of there as soon as possible. I had to get away from ‘The Scrava’. Never come back.

I carefully unclipped the clamps from around my nipples and undid the chain around my neck, freeing myself of Mr. Khani’s special necklace.

Pervert. Bastard.

Where was my dress? Not hanging on the peg where I had left it. Not on any of the neighbouring pegs. No sign of it. And where were my panties?

No sign of any other whores. Where was everyone? Where were my clothes?

I washed my face at a basin; the sticky remnants of Mr. Khani’s semen clung to my fingers as I scrubbed my cheeks.

Bastard. Bastard. How dare he treat me like that? Like a cheap slut. Like a whore. Hadn’t he known I wasn’t a whore? Bastard.

Where was my dress then? Where was it?

“You did well out there,” the CEO’s voice rang out of nowhere suddenly.

I spun around and there he was: leaning up against the door-frame, his face beaming with pride.

“Young Mr. Khani was very happy with you,” he said.

I blinked at him incredulously. I just wanted my clothes. I didn’t care what Mr. Khani thought of me. I just wanted my dress and then to get out of there as soon as possible.

“You were truly wonderful,” he affirmed.

Had he been watching me? Had he seen what Mr. Khani junior had made me do?

His eyes bore into me, making me feel uneasy, watched, observed. Naked. He made me feel naked.

“Can I have my dress?” I asked nervously, crossing my wrists over my breasts in order to hide them from him.

“Not yet,” he responded firmly.

What did he mean ‘Not yet’? It was my dress! Why couldn’t I have my dress back? Who was he to tell me I couldn’t have my dress back?

“Mr. Khani would like you to dance for him again,” he said flatly. “A few times a week. Here in the club.”

No way. I mean, no way! Who did they think I was? I wasn’t going through that again. Absolutely not. I wouldn’t do it again. No. No more. It wasn’t going to happen. No chance. Sorry.

“Mr. Khani is a major investor in our company, Elizabeth. We’re not going to turn him down.”

Oh yes we were. We were definitely going to turn him down.

“In fact,” he went on, clearing his throat, “because I was sure you would be flattered by the request, and because I knew you would understand the need to accept it, I have already gone ahead and told him that you would be delighted to perform for him again.”

What!? Who did he think he was?

“So you see, it would be a bit embarrassing…” he went on, “I mean - I can hardly go and tell him you have changed your mind.”

In what way had I changed my mind? I had agreed to just one dance, hadn’t I?

I shook my head defiantly and scowled at him. I wasn’t going to perform like that again for anyone. Not now, not ever. It didn’t matter who they were.

“Obviously we will discuss how best to compensate you for the additional responsibilities…”

They wanted to pay me! What did they think I was? A common whore?

“Please let me have my dress,” I insisted. “Please. I want to go.”

“Elizabeth,” he said in a more serious voice. “We’ll double your salary.”

Double my salary? God. One hundred thousand pounds. That was a lot of money.

“You’ll also be assigned your own maid – to take care of you at home,” he said, eyes glinting mischievously. “Complements of Mr. Khani…”

My own maid?

“…And you’ll be allocated a chauffeur,” he went on. “Again, Mr. Khani’s gift to you. Be driven anywhere, anytime.”

A maid? A chauffeur? That was surreal. But imagine it! Only the rich and famous had maids and chauffeurs, didn’t they?

“And there will of course be other benefits,” his said, raising a suggestive eyebrow. “Things I already know you will enjoy enormously…”

I felt giddy. My mind pulled in all directions at once, going nowhere.

They wanted me to whore for them! I couldn’t do that, could I? I was above their money and their benefits, wasn’t I? I couldn’t be bought… I had some self-respect, some dignity, some pride. Didn’t I?

“This is a sophisticated establishment, Elizabeth,” the CEO said. “It’s not a street corner brothel. Performing here is safe and discreet. How you regard the work itself is just a question of attitude - many of the girls actually enjoy working here. They enjoy the sex; they enjoy flirting with the clientele. They enjoy the money. They enjoy the kind of lifestyle they could only have dreamed of previously.”

While he spoke, the manager of the club had scurried up behind him.

“Mr. Khani just left,” he puffed as he slid through the doorway, brushing past the CEO. “He was satisfied, I’m glad to say. Remember how upset he got with the last girl?”

What last girl? What happened?

I looked at the floor, desperately wanting it to swallow me. Why couldn’t they just leave me alone? Let me be? They were trying to make me their whore!

“I don’t want to be a whore,” I protested.

“It’s too late, Elizabeth,” the CEO said. “Look at yourself. You’re already a whore.”

No. No! I wasn’t a whore, was I?

Maybe I was: Didn’t I display my breasts to him on demand? Didn’t I dress as he required me to dress? Didn’t I also undress when he required me to undress? Didn’t I dance for him at his bidding? Hadn’t I danced for him in the club with the other whores? Wasn’t I standing topless before him now, wearing nothing but whore-knickers and my most expensive heels? Didn’t I have Whore94 scrawled across my bum?

Oh God. I choked. He was right. I was already a whore.

No. Never. I was more than that. Had to be.

“You are a whore,” the CEO asserted, “and you enjoy it.”

I sniffed, determined not to break into tears. I wanted my dress. I didn’t want this. I went to a good school. I had been taught that if I worked hard in a respectable job then I would be successful. Had I been misled?

“Please don’t make me a whore,” I whimpered.

“Listen, Elizabeth,” he said gently. “It’s not what you think. What is a whore? I’ll tell you: A whore is a poor slut standing out in the cold on a street corner in her thigh-high boots begging for a cheap fuck in order to pay her pimp to beat her up and give her the next hit. That’s what a whore is. There are no whores here - only performers, entertainers, fantasy girls, dream girls, Goddesses…”

I shivered, shook, trembled.

“You want to be successful don’t you?” he asked.

I nodded feebly.

“Then agree to perform here,” he urged. “You will be well paid. You will even enjoy it. You are lucky in that respect - lucky, I mean, in that you are able to enjoy playing whore.”

How did he know that? He couldn’t know that, could he? It wasn’t even true, was it? Why didn’t I deny it? Why didn’t I tell him he was mistaken – that he must have me confused with someone else?

Oh God. Why was this happening? I was just an ordinary girl. I didn’t want this. Not me. Why me?

“Money buys freedom in this world, Elizabeth,” he said darkly. “Without money you are nothing more than a slave. You know what a slave is, Elizabeth? A slave is forced to work against their will. A slave starts with nothing, is put to work, and then ends up with nothing. How is that different from what most people do, day in, day out? They work all day for their masters and then they go to the bars and the clubs and the supermarkets and the high-street stores and they give their money straight back to their masters. They pay their rent to their masters. They make their mortgage repayments to their masters. All so they can enjoy the luxury of turning up at work the next day to start slaving all over again.”

He spoke with such conviction. It sounded grotesque. Grotesquely real. Was it real? Were we all slaves?

“Slavery was never abolished, Elizabeth. It was just cleverly disguised.”

I didn’t want to be a slave.

But I didn’t want to be a whore.

How tragic that I would end up both.

They watched me silently. They were waiting for a decision. They were waiting for me to tell them I wanted to be their whore.

“Why don’t you dance for us right now and show us how much you would like to accept Mr. Khani’s offer,” the CEO said, presenting me the floor with a gesture of his wrist.

I looked down at my heels.

Oh God.

I was going to be their whore, wasn’t I?

“I’ll do it…” I squealed.

“I know,” the CEO said. “Now dance.”

I started to sway my hips for them.

Why?

I wriggled my bum, turned, showed them my ‘Whore94’ pen-marking.

Why did I do that?

How I wish now that I hadn’t. How I regret that I did.

But as I lowered my arms from where they had shielded my bosom and as I wriggled around and displayed them my breasts, I could only feel exhilarated, intoxicated, breathless. I was going to be rich. I would be given a maid. My own driver. Whores would worship my feet and sink their lips into my…

I rubbed my nipples and wriggled my hips. I was used to dancing for the CEO by now. He was my employer. In a way he was now my pimp. He had found his whore a good client, a good playground. She should be grateful, shouldn’t she?

“Good girl,” he said, hypnotized by my dance. “Panties down.”

I obeyed, actually quite glad to be rid of the whore-knickers. They had made me look cheap. They had advertised my wares, drawn attention to my sex.

Oh God. What kind of whore would I become?

I slid the panties down to my ankles and stepped out of them. I heard the manager whistle air through his lips. I had almost forgotten him. I was dancing for him too, wasn’t I? He would be my manager here, wouldn’t he?

I turned and wriggled appreciatively for him, showing him my exposed pussy, delighting him with it, displaying him his new whore-girl.

“Can you register her right away?” The CEO asked.

They were going to register me? I hadn’t realised it would be as organised as that. Would I have to sign another contract?

“Um, yes – shouldn’t be a problem.” The manager answered, unable to take his eyes off me.

“Good,” the CEO said, his face beaming with pride again as I turned back to wriggle for him. “Let’s take her downstairs.”

I tottered behind them, naked but for my heels, along the seemingly endless corridors, down the innumerable flights of stairs. The artificial lighting was scant at best for the most part, and there was no natural illumination. We must have been well below ground level. How much more was there to the place? It was immense! A bewildering complex of apparently abandoned corridors and passages.

Eventually we arrived at what could only be described as some kind of underground studio workshop. Spotlights hung from the ceiling. They were directed at and illuminating a large wooden work-bench in the centre of the room. Circling the workbench, meticulously arranged, an array of what looked like camera-recorders were set up on tripods. Miscellaneous tools, tool-boxes, crates and shelving lined the sides of the room. Was this where I would register?

A middle-aged man wearing a heavily soiled white laboratory coat had been adjusting one of the cameras when we arrived.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” he said, his accent carrying an easy lilt. Irish, perhaps.

“She’s an intelligent girl,” the CEO replied, somewhat cryptically.

I felt his hand on my shoulder suddenly, causing my whole body to shudder.

“Elizabeth,” he said gently, “we are going to register you now. It’s a simple procedure, but there are one or two formalities to be taken care of.”

I looked at him blankly. What kind of procedure?

“The good doctor here…” he said, indicating the man wearing the stained laboratory coat “…will conduct a routine medical examination. We also need to take a few photographs.”

That man was a doctor? He didn’t look like a doctor. He looked more like a mechanic. And they wanted to take photographs?

“We need to document your physical condition at the time of enrolment,” The CEO explained. “It also gives us legal protection against, well, shall we say, ‘issues’ that have come up once or twice in the past. The photographs conveniently serve as evidence of your consent to register with us. Necessary red-tape, I’m afraid.”

That sounded reasonable enough, didn’t it?

Did I really want to go through with this? Did I really want to be their whore? Was the extra money worth it? Was it too late to change my mind?

“So, Elizabeth,” the CEO said, “get up on the bench and we’ll get started.”

The manager had picked up a handheld camera and seemed to be checking its operation.

I scanned the work-bench nervously. Get up on it? Why?

“Come on whore, get up on the bench,” the manager complained. “We don’t have all day.”

Who was he to get impatient with me? He was just the manager! A nobody really. He couldn’t get a real job so he had ended up running a club full of whores.

Oh God: He would be my fuck-master soon.

I pulled myself up onto the bench so that I was perched on the edge of it, my heels still able to reach the floor. I blinked in the full glare of the spotlights.

“No, not like that Elizabeth,” the CEO said. “We’re not taking snaps for the family album. Get right up on the bench and get on all fours.”

On all fours? Why?

“It’s just a routine examination,” the CEO smiled.

“Come on whore, get on with it,” the manager growled.

Part of my mind screamed with resentment at being called a ‘whore’ like that. But I would have to get used to it, wouldn’t I? It came with the territory. It was just a word. Nothing to get upset about. Think of the money.

I pulled my legs up under my bottom, twisted round, levered myself onto my knees and there I was: Up on their work-bench, in the spotlight, on all fours. Ready to be examined.

Were the cameras running? Were they filming me?

CLICK went the manager’s camera. CLICK CLICK.

I felt like a porn-model.

“Head down a bit, and hold your bottom up nicely for us Elizabeth,” the CEO instructed.

I complied and immediately heard the camera again:

CLICK. CLICK.

God. What was I doing?

“Open your legs a bit wider,” the CEO instructed. “We need clear shots of your pussy.”

I obeyed. The camera clicked.

“Hold your pussy open for us,” the CEO commanded.

I hesitated. Was this how they documented consent? They would have me display myself to them of my own volition?

I reached my fingers between my legs and spread my pussy lips for them with my finger nails. I was showing them my pink, offering them my sex. How shameful.

CLICK CLICK. CLICK.

“These are going to look great in the catalogue,” the manager chattered excitedly.

Catalogue? What catalogue?

The man wearing the lab-coat shuffled busily around me. He checked my teeth. He squeezed my breasts. He prodded my ribs. He stroked my legs. He patted my bottom. His fingers ran down the crack of my arse. He circled my sex. Suddenly he had one of his fingers planted in my pussy.

Instinctively I cringed, released my pussy-lips, and drew my legs together defensively.

“Come on Elizabeth, behave yourself,” the CEO said firmly. “It’s just a routine examination. Trust the good doctor.”

Behave myself? Did he mean that I should allow this so-called doctor to touch my sex with his dirty fingers? Was that it?

“Bottom up whore,” the manager insisted. “Spread your legs, and hold that pussy open nice and wide for us.”

I didn’t want to be that kind of whore! I didn’t want to be examined. I didn’t want them to take pictures of me.

But hesitantly, quivering wretchedly, I resumed the required pose.

I stuck my bottom out high, sunk my head low.

Oh God. Why?

CLICK.

The doctor – if indeed that was what he was – delicately inserted his finger into my sex once again.

CLICK CLICK.

I felt his finger probing me. I held myself open for him. He rubbed my clitoris. I let a small moan escape. Oh God. It felt good. No! It felt awful, degrading.

CLICK.

He withdrew his finger and I wanted it back the instant it was gone. No I didn’t. I didn’t want it back. Never. Disgusting, dirty finger. Who did he think he was toying with my sex like that?

SPIT.

Something warm and wet land on my arsehole. Had he just spat on my arse? Bastard.

SPIT.

“Keep that pussy held open, Elizabeth,” the CEO instructed.

SPIT.

CLICK.

The doctor’s fingers pressed at the nub of my arsehole, rubbing in his spit, moistening me. He borrowed juice from my pussy and rubbed it into my anus. I wanted to resist. Should I have resisted?

CLICK CLICK.

He inserted a finger into my arse; it slipped in shamefully easily. He was surprisingly gentle. Smooth. I think I wanted it in there. No. No. It couldn’t have been like that.

“Wriggle that butt a bit, Elizabeth” the CEO called out. “Head down. Keep your bottom up.”

I obeyed. I wriggled my arsehole on the doctor’s finger. He wasn’t a doctor, was he? Couldn’t have been.

CLICK.

How many photos were they planning on taking? Should I still be holding my pussy open? Or could I let go?

The doctor withdrew his finger from my arse. Had I passed the examination? Could I register now?

He shuffled around me. With my chin almost right down on the surface of the bench I was staring straight into his groin. He reached out his hand and offered me his fingers, waving them under my nose. I could smell myself on them.

I knew what I was supposed to do. The CEO had taught me. I had seen the other whores do it. I was a whore now.

I took his fingers into my mouth and sucked obediently. I wrapped my tongue around them and tasted myself on them.

CLICK.

I slurped at his fingers.

CLICK CLICK.

I drooled over them.

CLICK.

I held my pussy open throughout.

CLICK. Shuffling footsteps. CLICK. CLICK.

“She’s ready,” the doctor announced finally.

Ready? Ready for what?

He withdrew his fingers from my mouth and dragged them roughly across my face.

“We will now complete the registration process, Elizabeth,” the CEO said. “Are you ready to wear your number?”

Wear my number? What number? He must mean…

No, not that. Surely not that.

No, he couldn’t mean that. They couldn’t expect me to go through that, could they? I was only going to perform a few times a week, wasn’t I? Surely it wouldn’t be necessary to do that.

Oh God. That was why I was here, wasn’t it? To get my tattoo. They were going to tattoo my registration number on my bottom! They were going to inscribe Whore94 on my arse. Of course they were. I should have guessed, shouldn’t I? Why hadn’t I realised? Was I stupid? I deserved it, didn’t I? If I was that stupid, I deserved to be numbered like a whore.

No. Surely not. I wouldn’t let them. No way. No way.

“Well, Elizabeth?” he asked again, “Are you ready?”

“You mean…” I whimpered.

“Yes Elizabeth,” he said. “You aren’t fully registered until you’re wearing your number.”

I swallowed.

“And you can’t perform here until you are fully registered,” he added.

Why was I up on the work bench? Why was I on all fours, sticking my bottom up obediently? And why was I still holding my sex open for them? What kind of whore was I?

Hesitantly, uncertainly, I released my pussy-lips and pulled my hand back between my legs. They didn’t complain. Good. That was something at least. But for how long had I been holding myself open needlessly for them then? Why hadn’t they told me I could let go?

“I… I don’t want to be tattooed,” I protested feebly.

“Yes you do Elizabeth,” the CEO said, sounding unnervingly sure of himself.

What!? Who did he think he was?

“Don’t attach too much importance to it,” he said dismissively. “It’s just a tattoo. Practically everyone has one these days.”

Maybe they do, I thought. But not like that. Not spelling out your whore-number.

“It’s just a bit of fun,” he said, “A harmless tattoo.”

Maybe it was a just a harmless tattoo to him, but he wouldn’t be the one wearing it, would he?
“No-one outside ‘The Scrava’ need ever know about it,” he went on. “It will be your little secret. Doesn’t that excite you, Elizabeth? Isn’t that erotic? Sexy? Naughty? - like going out not wearing panties under your skirt. And just imagine your maid on her knees lapping at it with her whore-tongue! Imagine her worshipping it, begging to kiss it, wanting nothing more in this world than to kiss your bottom and run her tongue over your number…”

Mmm… I couldn’t help picturing my new whore-maid on her knees doing exactly that….

…Mmmmm …Yes. I could imagine that. Oh yes.

Was he right? Was it just a harmless tattoo? A bit of fun? A sexy secret?

“Only the most gorgeous, most privileged, most beautiful, sexy, wonderful girls are invited to register here, Elizabeth. Think of it as an acknowledgement of how special you are. Your reward, if you like, for being so incredibly desirable…”

Why not? Why not accept the tattoo? What harm could it do?

“Keep that bottom up, whore,” the manager demanded.

“Sorry sir,” I squealed.

Why was I apologising? Why did I call him ‘Sir’?

CLICK.

Could I wear their tattoo? I could get rid of it when I stopped being a whore, couldn’t I? I would stop being a whore one day, wouldn’t I?

I felt the doctor’s needle scrape into my left buttock.

…don’t do it…

He was carving my number into me.

…stop him... don’t let him…

I was being numbered. Ninety-four. Whore number ninety-four.

…stop him…

CLICK, CLICK.

…don’t let him do it…

CLICK.

Welcome to my new life.

CLICK.

The life of a whore.

CLICK, CLICK.

Approved. Numbered. Registered. Catalogued. Owned.

CLICK.

“It’s done,” the doctor said finally.

Over so soon. He had worked quickly. Experienced. An experienced registrar of whores.

“Hold open that pussy one more time, whore,” the manager commanded.

I obeyed. I prised open my whore-pussy with my fingertips and displayed it to them again.

CLICK. CLICK.

Photos of a newly registered whore. For the catalogue. For the catalogue?

CLICK.

“Thank you for co-operating, Elizabeth,” the CEO said, “A pity I didn’t need this.”

I felt something cold and firm brush across my buttocks. Then I felt whatever it was come to rest upon my whore-number.

It was a cane. He was stroking my buttocks with a cane.

What did he mean it was a pity he hadn’t needed it?

He ran the tip of the cane across my gaping pussy while I held myself open for him.

God. What a slut I was. What a filthy slut.

I hated myself. I loathed myself. I was doing this for money. How cheap.

Maybe I deserved to feel his cane?

“You are now Whore94,” he said.

Yes. He was right. I was.

Oh God. What had I done?

“Whore94,” he repeated, enjoying the sound of it on his lips.

WHOOOOSH SPANK.

What!? No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. No. Oh God.

He had just cane-spanked my bare arse!

“Bottom up,” he commanded as I shrank away from him, “I haven’t finished yet.”

I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to raise my bottom up so he could spank me.

“I am paying you to be my whore,” he said, “I wish to spank my whore. Is my whore going to let me spank her or not?”

No, she wasn’t going to let him. No way.

WHOOOSH SPANK.

I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came out.

“Bottom up Elizabeth,” he insisted. “Stick that bottom up and out.”

WHOOOSH SPANK.

Shit. Oh shit. Please no. No. Please.

He wasn’t allowed to spank me was he?

CLICK.

Why didn’t I move?

WHOOSH SPANK.

Why didn’t I get off that work-bench?

CLICK.

I was holding my pussy open for them, wasn’t I? Why was he spanking me!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOSH SPANK.

Ow. Ow. That stung. That seriously hurt. I cried out. I know I cried out.

“I want that bottom UP,” he demanded.

“And keep that pussy open, whore,” the manager ordered.

I had been well-behaved, hadn’t I? Why were they doing this to me?

WHOOOOOOSH SPANK.

No! Stop! I didn’t want to be spanked. I didn’t want to be a whore anymore! It had all been a mistake. Please stop.

CLICK. CLICK.

“Good girl,” the CEO congratulated me. “You’re one of the best we’ve had. Keep that bottom up.”

WHOOOOOSH SPANK.

WHOOOOSH SPANK.

Ow. Please Stop. Please stop spanking me.

CLICK.

CLICK, CLICK.

He tapped my buttocks with the end of the cane. They felt raw. My rape-master was beating me. I was his piece of shit whore and he was beating me like a dog. Oh God. This couldn’t be happening, could it?

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH SPANK.

I yelped in agony as the blow bit viciously close to my open pussy lips.

“I think that’s enough,” he announced, testing my bum-flesh with prods from the end of his cane. “Next time Elizabeth, if you want to be spanked, just ask.”

What!? What was that supposed to mean? I hadn’t wanted to be spanked, had I?

He prodded me off the work-bench and I fell into a quivering heap on the floor.

“Crawl over to the kind doctor and thank him for numbering you,” the CEO commanded.

Oh God. I knew what that meant. I knew, but there was nothing I could do to stop it now.

My newly registered bottom wriggled shamelessly as I crawled over to the dcotor’s feet. There, as I tilted back my chin to look up at him and express my gratitude, I took his cock straight into my face. One naked whore slut on her knees thanking her tattoo-master for registering her.

I panted on the end of his penis and flicked my tongue frantically at his shaft. Occasionally I dared to look up at him. He was enjoying the new whore.

He grabbed one of my breasts and squeezed it firmly. He released it and slapped it. He tugged at my nipple, turned it expertly in his fingers.

He placed his dripping cock between my breasts and bade me massage it there with my tits. I pressed my palms to the outside of my bust and rubbed them obediently into his shaft. The tip of his penis thrust and stabbed me at my throat. My nipples were extraordinarily hard, hot, swollen.

What a disgrace. But it felt so good to hold his throbbing penis between my whore-breasts.

No! No. It wasn’t like that. Couldn’t have been.

CLICK.

And they were documenting it. Taking pictures of their new whore. This was more than consent, wasn’t it?

The doctor shot his semen under my chin and spilled it over my tits. I clenched his penis tightly while he rode his orgasm. His thrusts eased until finally he grunted, satisfied, spent.

I pouted as I massaged his cock between my nipples. And I panted. My pussy was on fire. I was a filthy cunt-whore, wasn’t I? This was what I had always wanted, wasn’t it? To serve cock. To worship it. To have it inside me.

I released the tattoo-master’s cock and let his semen dribble down my chest. I stood and curtsied, sticking out my breasts so that he could better admire his orgasm dripping from my pert nipples.

CLICK, CLICK.

I turned, wriggled my 94 for him, faced him again, curtsied again.

Why? Why did I do all that? No-one had forced me to do it. No-one had even asked me.

CLICK.

I must thank the fuck-master. My photographer. My manager.

I crawled to him and sunk my lips into his shoes. I ran my tongue along them. I could see my whore-face in them.

He pulled me up by my hair and dragged me over to the work-bench. He bent me over it and stuck his cock straight up my sopping pussy from behind.

At last. At last. That was what I wanted. A good fucking. Yes. Fuck me.

“Wriggle on it, bitch,” he demanded. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”

I wriggled obediently, while he tugged on my hair, forcing my neck back. I pulled him into me, eased him out, drew him back in again. He was so hard, so stiff, so warm. So powerful. My fuck-master.

“Faster,” he shouted. “Faster.”

I wriggled more frantically. His cock felt enormous inside me.

He fucked me hard. He banged me. No more gentle love-making for this whore. I would be banged from now on. Used. Screwed like a bitch. Spanked. Spat on. Caned.

He thrust in and out and in and out and in and out.

BANG BANG BANG.

He fucked me good. He fucked his new whore proper.

He was my manager. He knew how to manage this whore.

SLAP SLAP

He slapped my arse. He slapped my 94. It felt good. It felt awful. It felt wonderful. It felt horrible. I was a bitch whore slut cunt meat dog wasn’t I?

“Drink it, bitch” my fuck-master barked at me, yanking my hair viciously, forcing me to cry out.

I turned, fell to my knees, opened my mouth wide for him, stuck my tongue out, waggled it greedily. I waited for him to shoot his jizzum down my throat.

When he came, I swallowed. I scooped his sperm from my face and rubbed it into my breasts, mixing it with that of the doctor. He held my chin firmly throughout, forcing me to look up at him.

“Good fucking whore you found here,” he wheezed.

The CEO didn’t respond.

I pouted up at my fuck-master submissively.

“Thank you sir,” I said as he released my chin.

Then I stood and curtsied. My new fuck-master. My new manager.

God. Why was I behaving so disgracefully? They had forced their whore-tattoo on me and now I was thanking them for it! It was far worse than the rape, wasn’t it? At least the rape would go away. The tattoo would never go away. It would be like wearing a licence to be raped. Forever.

My breasts were covered in semen. I was a cum-wench. A gizzum-doll.

Now the CEO would fuck me, wouldn’t he? I crawled over to him and knelt before him. I looked up at him. My rape-master.

Why had I let him beat me?

I stared at his shoes. He owned me now, didn’t he?

“Kiss the cane, Elizabeth” he said.

I kissed it. He had raped me and I had thanked him for it. Now he had beaten me and I was thanking him for that too.

“You’re dirty,” he said. “I’m not going to fuck a dirty whore.”

Why not? Why wouldn’t he fuck me?

I was on fire. I wanted him inside me. Like last time.

“Get up,” he ordered. “It’s time to go.”

I stood and curtsied politely.

“Thank you sir,” I uttered feebly, and curtsied again.

As I trotted obediently behind them back along the maze of corridors that made up the underbelly of ‘The Scrava’ my breasts dripped with their semen and my buttocks raged from the caning.

I was numbered now.

What a disgrace.

And it was only just beginning.

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